


Sacrifice & Sacrament

by blackmountainbones



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV), The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bringing Back the Boosh, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Priest Kink, Prompt #8: AU/Historical, Sexual Repression, abuse of the confessional, bastardization of Bible quotes, but seriously have you ever really read The Song of Solomon cause that shit SLAPS, gratuitous religious imagery, quoting Scripture as a kind of foreplay, that's not how you do a confession, the kind of Catholic angst that only a lapsed Catholic could write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-24 11:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19172473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones
Summary: Noel hadn’t been expecting to fall into temptation when he’d stopped by the small church after class one afternoon. He'd been seeking inspiration for his art classes, not salvation, but he finds Father Julian Barratt, instead.An alternative first encounter of sorts.





	Sacrifice & Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [walkwithursus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/gifts).



> I imagine this story taking place in the mid 90s, about the time that Noel and Julian met in real life.
> 
> A gift for @walkwithursus, whose spamming of Father Julian thirst in the Discord coincided nicely with a rewatch of Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. My coworker put Darkplace on at work the very next day, and I promptly forgot that I was on the job and not in the Discord, accidentally outing myself as a sex pervert who wants to do terrible, terrible things to Julian Barratt's bum. This is my penance. Hope this hits you in the kinks!
> 
> Thanks to @walkwithursus and @BobSkeleton for enabling me and giving this thing a good beta! See you in hell, cos Lord knows, we've earned it.

The walls of the confessional are dark and close, the smell of frankincense permeating every surface. Noel kneels on the deep red carpet, worn thin and threadbare from the weight of countless penitents and the burden of their sins.

He clears his throat. “Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

Noel waits, knees aching against the floor which is hard and unyielding beneath the worn carpet, for the priest’s response.

Father Julian Barratt recognizes the voice instantly--it’s the young man with the blue eyes and trendy hair who has introduced himself as Noel and seeks Julian out after each sermon under the guise of spiritual guidance though his queries are more personal than ecumenical in nature. He asks more questions about Julian himself than he asks about Jesus. Had Julian met him in the before-times, when he was still a sinner, Julian has no doubt that he would have taken the boy to bed, that they would have lain together in lust as man and man are wont to do.

A forbidden thrill shivers up his spine. He knows that he should recuse himself, ask one of his fellow priests to take his place. He knows he will do no such thing.

“Tell me, my child,” Julian’s voice rasps against his throat. “Unburden yourself of your sins, and let God absolve you.”

He knows, as Noel must know, that there will be no such absolution.

“It has been one week since my last confession,” Noel answers. “I lied to my parents about my grades. I stole my brother’s Pokemon cartridge and overwrote it with my game.” He enumerates the minor sins first, one after the other, pausing as he considers the mortal sins he has committed, and all those he would commit, given the chance.

Not that Noel’s the religious type, not exactly. His attachment to Catholicism is more aesthetic than spiritual--of all the churches his parents dragged him to in his childhood, during those seeking years, he remembers the Catholic ones best: stained glass and statuary, oil paintings, exotic incenses. He likes the ritual, the wheeze of the organ, the droning hymns; they strike something in his Gothic soul.

Most of all, he likes the priest. Father Barratt is unlike any other priest Noel’s ever met--he’s young, not yet forty by Noel’s estimate. He has wavy hair down to his chin, rugged, lupine good looks, and a voice that is rich and dark and tinged with cigarettes and sin. From the first moment he’d seen Father Barratt preaching in the pulpit, Noel has known that he does not want the man to save him from his trespasses--he wants Father Barratt to trespass with him.

He hadn’t been expecting to fall into temptation when he’d stopped by the small church after class one afternoon, seeking inspiration for his art classes, not salvation. As he'd been contemplating the way the light fell through the stained-glass windows, the organ started playing, and Noel, not wanting to be rude, settled into a pew to wait out the Mass, when Father Barratt approached the altar.

Noel was captivated before the priest had even said a word. And once he began preaching, the melodic tone of his voice, the drama, the _pathos_ with which Father Barratt spoke about the temptations to sin that lurk in every dark corner of the world and the weakness of the flesh to resist, made Noel shiver with something sacrilegious. He’d left the church limping, hard in his tight jeans, hardly managing to make it across campus to his dorm before wanking himself raw to the kind of orgasm so strong he’d gotten semen in his hair and on his chin. Yet instead of feeling mortified or ashamed, Noel _craves_ , and the craving has only gotten worse with time.

“I have been lusting after a man,” Noel says. On the other side of the screen, he hears Father Barratt stifle a gasp; Noel’s cock throbs with the thrill of it. He reaches between his legs to caress himself as he speaks.

Julian swallows. Every one of Noel’s confessions are the same: after he names his lesser sins, he moves on to describe the sins of the flesh in ever-more-vivid detail, pushing Julian ever closer to his limits. He is a priest, but he is also a man, a man whose appetite for fornication has not waned even after ten years in service to God. He crosses himself, worrying the beads of the rosary he wears around his neck with a silent prayer. When he stutters over the line _Deliver me from evil,_ the beads snap and scatter silently to the floor _._ Only the crucifix, with its tiny metal Jesus hanging from the cross, remains in his grasp.

God hears everything, but the Devil listens too. Julian believes in omens. The crucifix he clutches between his fingers burns, unnaturally hot against his skin. He drops this too, and it lands face-down on the blood-red carpet. Even Jesus has turned his back on him, closed his eyes against the transgressions taking place between the two men in this small room.

Unaware of Father Barratt’s revelation, Noel continues speaking, feeling bolder as he teases himself with one hand between his legs in the close dark room. “At night, in my bed, I have sought him--I sought him, but I found him not. And so I have touched myself to the thought of him, to the thoughts of the things I would do to him were he to lie with me.”

Julian recognizes the poem Noel is reciting, bastardized as it is. He has studied the Bible chapter by chapter, verse by verse; of all the books of the Bible, this is his favorite--the Song of Solomon. “I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying ‘Open to me, my love’.” The rasp in his voice is deeper than before, his throat constricting around the desire that threatens to consume him, consume them both, here in this tiny, dim room that smells of incense and musk and _man_. He takes a deep breath, sure that he can smell the headiness of Noel’s arousal, heavy in the air between them. It has been long, too long, but he remembers this smell, the scent of male desire, well enough to recognize the way it wafts off the young man on his knees in the close darkness of the confessional.

The roughness of Father Barratt’s voice makes Noel shiver where he kneels. Every other time he has confessed this sin, Father Barratt has sent him to pray a string of Hail Marys. Emboldened by the hoarse, sinful timbre of the priest’s words, Noel keeps talking. “I have opened myself for him,” he confesses. “Every night, in my bed, I open myself for him, thinking what it would feel like if he were doing it for me, if it were his fingers and not my own inside me, opening me until I was ready for him to come inside…”

Julian’s cock stiffens at the image of Noel, naked and trembling, hands between his legs, fingers teasing his hole and slipping inside. His skin is so pale, his body lean, and Julian can image all-too-vividly what he must look like, sprawled, naked, and wanting, laid out on his sheets like a sacrament, fingers of one hand on his cock, the other teasing his arsehole as he writhes.

When Julian finally speaks, the words catch him by surprise. “Show me.” On the other side of the screen, he hears Noel moan, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It is obscene, a sin of the worst kind, to indulge his lust while wearing the sacred vestments of his priesthood, but Julian is past caring. “Show me how you open yourself for him.”

He hears the rustle of Noel’s shifting weight on the other side of the screen and presses his face against the it, desperate to see. Even in the dim confessional, Noel’s eyes shine blue and bright. His mouth is open, a look of surprise on his angular features.

“Father--”

“Julian,” Julian corrects him. He wants to hear Noel speak his name. There is power in names--to name a demon is to own it, control it; he wants Noel to own this part of him, the part that is weak and sinful enough to fall into temptation despite all his spiritual shields.

“Julian,” Noel moans. It sounds as sweet as Julian imagined.

“Show me,” he commands, and the sound that follows is even sweeter than Julian’s name on his lips. It is the sound of a zipper sliding open, the rasp of fabric against hairy thighs as Noel pushes his tight jeans down.

Exposed, Noel leans forward, supporting himself on all fours, his bare flesh prickling with goosebumps. The church is old and made of stone, the air damp and cool. He shivers, both from the cold and the anticipation of the act he is about to commit. On hands and knees, he waits for Father Barratt--Julian, he corrects himself--to react.

When he does, it’s with a long, low moan that fills the close space of the confessional. Noel can see the shadow of his face, pressed close against the screen that separates them. He reaches to rest one hand on his side of the screen, wishing that he could feel the warmth of Julian’s breath against his skin with no barrier between them.

Julian’s tongue steals out to trace Noel’s fingers. It is hot and wet, even through the screen, and Noel knows what he wants him to do, so he spits into his palm. His mouth is dry with lust, so he spits again, getting his fingers wet before he places them between his legs, to the secret place where he’s never been touched by anyone except himself, and presses a wet fingertip inside.

It burns, a bit, like this, with only his rapidly-drying saliva to ease the way. Noel presses his eyes closed, focusing, willing his body to relax. He’s drawn so tight with anticipation that he can’t quite manage it, and he lets out a sound that is half-moan, half-whimper.

It is too dark in the confessional to see anything more than the shadow and suggestion of Noel’s movements. It has been years since Julian last indulged this particular sin, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he had met Noel before having renounced the sins of the flesh. He’d been good at this once; in those promiscuous years before he’d entered seminary, he’d had many lovers, had given and received pleasures beyond that which any mortal man should know.

“Describe it. What you’re doing to yourself.” Julian exhales, one hand stealing beneath his robes to grasp at his own erection. It has been long, too long, since he has indulged in the forbidden act of self-abuse; his penis is hot and heavy in his hand, eagerly jumping at the touch.

Noel obliges. “I’m so… _tight_ ,” he breathes, spitting on his hand again before reaching back behind himself. With a deep breath, he bears down; this time, he is slick enough to slide the finger inside without too much resistance. “God, it’s so good, so hot, fuck, I want you to touch me…”

Julian squeezes himself, his cock beginning to drip at the obscene sounds falling from Noel’s lips. “I would,” he murmurs. He repeats the words like an _amen_ , like a coda to a psalm. “I would.”

“Fuck, you’d be so good at this,” Noel whines, sliding another finger in beside the first. He’s seen Julian’s hands, watched the long, strong fingers wrap around the rosary in prayer, thought about how they would feel inside him. The stretch of it burns, but it is not unpleasant. Hell, he thinks, would burn worse, but it would be worth it to feel Julian inside the way Noel has imagined him, so many times before.

“My beloved put his hand by the hole in the door, and my bowels were moved for him,” Julian recites. He remembers the heat inside every man he’s touched, the feel of the muscles stretching around his fingers; he knows Noel would yield to him if only he dares--

A fragment of verse flashes across Noel’s mind. “I rose up to open to my beloved, and my fingers dripped with myrrh....” He pushes his fingers more deeply to graze that secret place inside that makes his whole body spark with pleasure, the final words of the quote dissolving into a moan.

But Julian understands. He knows this psalm by heart. His hand is still on his cock, but he does not dare stroke himself for fear he will spill his passion instantly. It’s a sin, it’s a sacrilege, and he knows he should stop this before he defiles both Noel’s and his own immortal souls. He is a man of the cloth, but he is only a man. He does not want to stop. He only _wants_.

Noel lifts himself from all fours to his knees, puts one hand on his cock. The small room is filled with obscene sound of skin on skin, the unmistakable slap of his foreskin as it covers and uncovers the head of his cock as he strokes, the softer, even more perverse squelch of his fingers in his arse. “I’m going to come, I can’t help it,” he warns. He wants Julian to know what he looks like when he comes, wants Julian to _see_.

A hiss of breath escapes from behind the divider. Julian’s dark eyes are two deeper shadows in the shadow of his face against the screen. Noel can see his expression--eyes wide, mouth open--as if in a plea, as if he will start begging for more at any moment. It’s the expression that does it, makes Noel lose control and come all at once.   

He still has enough shame to catch the semen in his hand, aware that he should not defile this sacred place with his lust any more than he has already. Julian is still watching through the privacy screen, breath loud and ragged, and Noel wonders if he is touching himself as he lifts his dirty palm to his mouth and drinks his own spunk for Julian to see.

Julian sits and stares, hand on his cock, trying to keep himself under control. He wants to moan, to touch himself, to give himself over to his passion as easily as Noel has done to his own, but it has been so long since he has given in to the temptation of the flesh that he is frozen, helpless, unable to do anything more than hold himself at the brink. Perhaps it is less of a sin if he doesn’t come, if he just watches Noel lick his fingers clean, if he does nothing more than take deep breaths and gorge himself on the smell of sex, which lingers in the small, dark room, heady, musky, masculine.

The two men sit on opposite sides of the screen, breathing hard, each imagining what it would be like if they were to touch with only skin in between as the scent of sex lingers in the air. Neither man dares speak, neither man dares move, until the church bells begin singing, summoning all believers to evening Mass. Noel squirms as he pulls skinny jeans up his thighs. On the other side of the screen, Julian smoothes his robes and collects the beads of his broken rosary from the floor, pocketing them as he tries to remember his sermon, but his mind is blank, the still-quiet voice of God drowned out by the desire in his veins as his arousal ebbs and his bollocks ache with unfulfilled lust.

The crucifix that fell when Julian’s rosary broke between his fingers remains forgotten on the floor, Jesus’s face resting against the carpet, seeing nothing.

 

After evening Mass, Julian sneaks out to the garden to light a cigarette with a shaking hand. It is not yet dusk, but the sky is already dark from an approaching storm, atmosphere electric. He lifts the cigarette to his lips, sucking the sweet smoke in.

He has never been able to quit this habit. He knows it is a sin to defile his God-given body with such filth, but he had taken comfort, before, in knowing he’d been able to quit so many of his more grievous vices, mostly his habit of taking men to his bed and worshipping their bodies with a fervor so intense as to create false idols from their flesh.

Jesus saved Julian, saved him at his lowest. He remembers like it was yesterday, even though it was a decade ago--he’d been a regular at all the wildest clubs in Soho, engaging in drugs and sex, never very picky about either the pills he took nor the men he’d suck and fuck in toilets and alleys and dark corners. When he’d finally settled down with the man with whom he thought he might want to spend his life, it hadn’t been long before his lover got sick.

They hadn’t had a name for it then, but when he’d gotten the news, Julian had fallen to his knees and prayed that he would be spared from the illness that was killing his lover, turning him into a living skeleton that shook with fever and made his mouth break out in sores like a leper. God had answered Julian’s prayers, saved him from the sickness, given him another chance at life. Julian took it, and thankful for God’s mercy, turned his back on his life of sin; after nursing his lover through hospice, Julian had buried his sinful past along with his dead lover and dedicated his life to serving God.

Some men are called to the cloth because they are pure in heart. Others are called out of devotion. Still others because they know sin intimately, know they are powerless against temptation and turn to God to save them, and having been saved, wish to save others from the suffering they have known. Julian knows which one he is.

Julian loves God, he _does_ , but not enough. Not enough to turn his back on the beast with two backs, not when the love that dare not speak its name dares to speak _his_ name. He takes another drag, breathes out the smoke, then tosses the butt to the ground, not caring that he is defiling God’s green earth as he does. Underneath his sacred vestments, he is all filth, down to the core.

Before heading into the parish house, he kisses the cheek of the statue of Christ in the garden, a habit he’s had since coming to this parish all those years ago. The stone is cool and smooth against his lips, lifeless. Yet Julian still feels like Judas, who betrayed Jesus with a kiss.

A familiar voice breaks the silence. “Do you have one of those for me?”

Julian’s spine goes stiff; his cock does too, reminding him of his earlier unfulfilled desire. Noel must have been waiting for him to leave the church, waiting for a moment to catch Julian without the screen between them. He doesn’t know whether to be excited or afraid, so he silently shakes a fag out of the crushed packet in his breast pocket to pass it to Noel.

Noel places the fag between his plump pink lips and pouts. Julian knows what Noel wants, and flicks his lighter, leaning in. Close like this, Julian can smell him--candy floss and turpentine. Up close, he looks younger even than Julian remembers him being; there’s no way he’s out of uni, and Julian feels even more filthy than before. He lights himself another fag, just so he has an excuse to stay near.

They stand and smoke, silent. Until Noel breaks the silence, the words spilling out with a mouthful of smoke. “I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him: I called him, but he gave me no answer.”

“I’m right here,” Julian whispers. It sounds like a prayer. Perhaps it is, though it is not meant for God’s ears, only Noel’s.

“You are,” Noel says, his blue eyes wide and wild, shining bright in the dark. The wind whips his hair into his face, and before Julian can stop himself, he’s pushing Noel’s bangs back to get a better look at his face. Noel bites his lip, bracing himself against the unexpected contact. When Julian’s fingers trace the contours of his face, dipping down to skim the shape of his cupid’s bow, Noel’s tongue steals out to taste his fingertips.

They taste like salt, bitter with nicotine. Julian’s nails are short and smoothly-filed. Noel wants to know, now more than ever, what they would feel like if they were touching him from the inside.

Julian wants to flee, but he knows that even if he manages to put space between himself and Noel, he will never outrun his desire. It will follow him, licking at his ankles like the flames of Hell, eternal, ever burning. He gives up, gives in. “Not here,” he murmurs, and leads Noel to the far corner of the parking lot, unlocks his car and slides into the backseat. Noel follows.

It’s a tight fit--the car is small, and Julian is a tall man with long legs. He pulls Noel close to his chest and buries his face in Noel’s neck, drinking in his scent, which is sweet and young and tinged with the chemical smell of turpentine and oil paint.

But it’s not enough, and Julian opens his mouth to taste. Noel’s skin is salty-sweet, and Julian moans against his neck, unable to stop the grin that stretches his lips into a smile when Noel’s body quivers against his own. He’s similarly affected, legs trembling, but he tries to explain it away as nothing more than the strain of long limbs stuffed into a cramped space. But Julian knows that he’s lying to himself, that God knows better--it’s Noel who affects him so.

A shaking hand steals between Julian’s legs, tracing the shape of his erection. He notices that Noel’s hands are small and wide and warm, hesitant. His touch is different from Julian’s own, and it’s been so long since Julian has felt the touch of another that Julian, unable to stop himself, opens his robes and the fly of his trousers. His cock leaps out, poking through the fly of his pants, and Noel sighs, his fingers closing around the hot flesh.

Julian’s cock is large and thick, a man’s cock; it’s nothing like the gropes Noel has stolen from his classmates, heavier, headier. Noel’s mouth waters as he is struck with the desire to hold him in his mouth. He slides down, settling himself on the floor of the cramped backseat, getting a good look at Julian’s cock, at the stains on his underwear where it has leaked during their earlier encounter, still sticky, still wet, and his breath catches. Noel’s done this before, once or twice, but he’s far from expert; he hopes that his enthusiasm will make up for his lack of experience.

As he gazes down at Noel’s face between his thighs, drawn tight in an expression of determined concentration, Julian knows instinctively what he intends to do. He pushes his damp pants down beneath his balls, exposing himself completely, and Noel gives him an experimental stroke. Impatient, Julian bucks his hips, pushing his prick into Noel’s eager hand, when Noel leans down to _lick_ at him.

His tongue is nimble and teasing. It sets Julian alight. He burns, and will never stop burning, not until Noel takes mercy on him and takes him into his mouth.

“Suck me,” Julian begs. “Suck me, fuck, your mouth, please--”

Noel obliges, taking as much of Julian’s cock into his mouth as he can fit. It’s too much, and he gags a bit, eyes tearing as he eases up. He concentrates on sucking at the head, wrapping his hand around the rest of it, struggling to find a rhythm that he can maintain with both hand and mouth at the same time.

Noel’s mouth is all hot wet heat, and Julian wonders how it’s possible for someone to suck cock so innocently. It occurs to Julian that perhaps this is the first time Noel has ever done this--he’s sloppy, unpracticed, less eager than determined.

The storm that has been threatening breaks. Thunder cracks against the silence, followed by a rush of rain. Julian tangles his fingers in Noel’s too-long hair, anchoring himself against the urge to fuck into his mouth until his eyes water and he chokes on Julian’s cock, until he can’t tell the difference between the salt of his tears and the salt of Julian’s skin.

Noel’s hand and mouth move faster over his prick. Julian manages to keep control until the tip of his tongue pushes beneath the foreskin to lap at the sensitive spot beneath the head of his cock. He pulls Noel’s face down, forcing him to take him until Noel’s long nose tickles at Julian’s pubic hair, until the muscles of his throat tighten and he gags. His eyes water, tears catching in his lashes which are dark and thick like a girl’s, and Julian wipes them away with the pad of his thumb then puts his thumb in his mouth, tasting an explosion of salt against his tongue. _For every one shall be salted with fire, and every sacrifice shall be salted with salt._

Julian is the sacrifice and Noel the sacrament. He fucks Noel’s mouth again and again as the rain falls onto the roof and the wind beats against the windows. It howls with the voices of the damned, all those who have not been saved, cursed to walk the earth until the last of days. The windows are fogged with his and Noel’s combined breath and no one, neither earthly nor unearthly, can see as Julian comes undone, spilling into Noel’s mouth with a cry so loud that his voice blocks out the howl of the wind.

Noel spits and sputters and lets Julian’s cock, still half-hard and spilling spunk, drop from between his swollen lips. His throat is raw and sore and he knows he will feel the shape and taste of it long after he wipes his mouth clean. He rests his face on Julian’s thigh, gasping for air; the coolness of it soothes the burn in his throat but not the burn in his chest. Noel is neither a good man, nor a kind one; he burns with lust and avarice. He does not want to share Julian with anyone, not even God, and it is the kind of wicked thought that he knows will damn him but he is too far gone to care. He mouths needy kisses along Julian’s still-naked thigh, whispering a prayer against his skin, a prayer meant to glorify God, not the mortal man before whom Noel is kneeling. “Place in my heart a desire to please you and fill my mind with thoughts of you.”

“May I love you in all things, and above all things,” Julian answers as he tucks a strand of sweat-slick dyed-black hair behind Noel’s ear, tracing the silvery tracks where Noel’s tears have dried on his cheeks, then leans down and kisses the blasphemy from Noel’s red raw lips, kisses Noel who returns the kiss shyly, not at all like a man who’s spent the last several minutes with a cock in his mouth. He licks Noel’s mouth clean, savoring the taste of mingled saliva and semen. A long-dormant part of Julian awakens, and he knows he will never be pure again, that nothing short of an exorcism will drive the corruption from his soul.

For Julian’s body is no longer his own. Every other sin that a man commits is without the body, but he that commits fornication sins against his own flesh. Julian was bought with a price, but instead of glorifying God by guarding his chastity, he will glorify Noel with his body and his spirit, until that too belongs no longer to God, but to Noel.

And though Noel cannot deliver him from evil, he can lead them both into temptation. Julian will follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Julian's ex-lover died of AIDS about ten years before the start of this fic.
> 
> Some notes on the quotes:  
> The Song of Solomon 3:1: “By night on my bed I sought him who my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not”; 5:4: “My beloved put his hand by the hole of the door, and my bowels were moved for him”; 5:5: “I rose up to my beloved; and my hands dripped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock”; 5:6: “I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer”.  
> Mark 9:49: “For every one shall be salted with fire, and every offering be salted with salt.”  
> Corinthians 6:18-20: “Flee fornication. For every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body. What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For you are bought with a price: thereby glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God’s.”
> 
> “May I love you in all things and above all things [....] Place in my heart a desire to please you and fill my mind with thoughts of you[r love]” is from a Catholic prayer called “The Prayer to Love God Above All Things”.


End file.
